"How long a soul is evergreen", 20 August 2019

A poet's relationship with inspiration is not to be questioned, but it is to be explored. 

In my late twenties, I had seen that relationship change. At eight years old, the world had been one vast and wonderful fountain of inspiration. At thirteen, hormonal changes demanded unique imagery to explain. By high school, good poetry found me rarely. Inspiration built slowly, like a social movement that eventually found a rallying cry. In college, I found myself moved by complex ideas, turning to poetry to make tedious topics accessible.

By my late twenties, I was eight years old again. I had much to feel, and the experience not to fret the "how" of poetry. 

But I'm a nostalgic man. After so much change, I wondered where those younger selves had gone. Could I write a poem like I had at 18? What would happen?

For "How long a soul is evergreen", I tried exactly that. The years from 18 to 27 had been a blur of medical emergencies, concussions, and pharmaceutical side-effects.

I wanted to pick up where my soul had left off. 

I refocused on the technological changes in my life, which had fascinated me at 18. Newly-replaced streetlights in my neighborhood had changed nighttime to an artificial day. Birds began chirping at 2am. It raised a question: what do humans have left to rely on? What constants remain? As the poem's first line indicates, we could put a wedding band on the wind's finger, but such a marriage would end in a fallen ring. With the poem's opening in mind, I set out to determine where a person could hang their hat in this new world.